They are our time

The most unbearable truth about grief is there are times that the fragmented of memories creep into your mind. At that split moment, you realise you are so alone: for this, no one can truly be related to you.

Not sure if people do, but I have been constantly thinking about mortality. I feel that if one day I was going to end it. It would be for the most ridiculous reason, or when I truly lost my sense of self.

Not sure if people think of this way, but I have been there the deeper end. Kneeling in front of the chest of drawers. Height was perfect for using as a writing surface. My handwriting was like the state of mind and it was almost illegible. Tears washed off the midnight blue ink, the colour of the deep ocean.

There are parts of our brain connects the past and the future. The endless rumination of regrets and the daunt of future.

There are times I remember we were cycling around the city, making as many stops as we could.

For a month I couldn’t bear myself to look at her photos. And when I do, my eyes fixated onto her.

Loving someone who will always be absent from your life.

Thinking about the warmth of the summer in Victoria Park. The tree softly rustling back and forth casting the shadow inside and out. Revealing the invisible wind.

Shan’t we revoke, celebrate those moments, make them present and live in the moment?

Does Anemoia works? Can we claim them our time - and long for this sense of nostalgia for a past we ourselves have never lived?

"Don't be afraid of the clocks, they are our time, time has been so generous to us. We imprinted time with the sweet taste of victory. We conquered fate by meeting at a certain TIME in a certain space. We are a product of the time, therefore we give back credit when it is due: time. We are synchronized, now and forever. I love you."

Felix Gonzalez-Torres, 'Letter to Ross Laycock, 1988'

…Do they keep us going on?